By Justine Johnson - Posted on 04 November 2011

 the snow was sad and pitiful and desperate. i dressed in the cold and the quiet and hoped for something daring to happen at the witches’ hour. beer and bullshit and dome lights. fog. ice and feathers. like old times.


i was stubborn. distance upon distance upon brothers staggered forward up the stairs and onto the couches. i had my bed and met them in the morning.

skip thump thump skip thump skip: rhythms of anxiety and neglect and rapidity.

the film grain sharpened the contrast between your skin, your swim trunks, the rocks and the water. i love that photograph but i try to forget about it. i dove into that reservoir. the island shaped the receding sediment to form veins in its mass. the water was cold for the fourth of july but our lunch stayed warm and we ate in a calmed silence on a damp patch of moss. like i said, i try to forget about it.

skip thump thump thump thump…skip.

his hands fiddled with the century’s most revered invention. wrists cuffed purple. dark. trying to move and not to move with the fluidity of the candid snapshot. organic and mechanical pulling strangely with each other. affection. alive, bitten, tired. telling.

it’s an overall different feeling. hopeful and backed-away. thump thump thump skip.






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